Two Asses and Two Americans

Before I get started today, a brief reminder that I have photos posted on Google (new ones should be posted within a few hours) and that you can find the link to this album in the navigation bar to the left. Alright, in the past I left of with...

Le Train en Retard
Arriving in Bordeaux, good fortune having allowed me to be awake upon arrival, I had roughly...negative four minutes before my next train left. I ran across to the appropriate platform, but was unsure if I had the right train or not. All the same, my few seconds of hesitation had already made it impossible to catch the train. The trains stay at each stop for no more than 10 or 15 minutes, and that's pushing it, so I've no idea how people avoid missing stops so successfully.

Fortunately my brain functions were sufficiently French to find out when the next train heading this way left and to get myself on that train. In the interim I managed to find an ATM and buy a phone card, both tasks I'd failed to accomplish in Paris because of my rush. Walking through the town, one notes the great abundance of cheap hotels and showgirl dives in in proximity to the train station--someone's making money on stalled voyagers.

Le Buisson - J'Attends
So we pull up to this tiny train station that's really more of a building next to the tracks, and I hop out because, hey, even if it doesn't look like much, it's got the right name. Jumping down onto the gravel, I make my way across to the building, empty except for a small pottery shop with someone working.

There's no one around. Two or three other people dismounted at Le Buisson, but their rides were already there or arrived within minutes. I wandered back and forth in front of the station, trying not to seem too strange to the people socializing in the cafe across the street at the end of the day. The phone card, with which I had no luck in Bordeaux, continues its refusal to cooperate, and I resort to my cell phone, however horrific that rate may be in Europe.

Pascale answers. She thought I was showing up tomorrow. Apparently my brain wasn't working all that well when I left my message from Bordeaux. (She later told me that, when she got that message, she thought my French wasn't all that great and that these would be an interesting six weeks.) "Someone" will come pick me up now.

La Belge
A tiny car--the kind you'd be hard pressed to find in the states, but which is at least as common as a cockroach in Europe--rocks up with an older guy and a girl my age inside. Christian, I discover his name to be, helps me load my bags in the car, and introduces me to Caley, the Belgian. We head through the dark, winding, wooded country roads at a speed that might not break your neck, but will certainly appear ready to do so on such roads as these.

We arrive. Getting out of the car in front of the lower level, Christian helps me move my stuff into one of the guest rooms here and we head upstairs to greet the others.

I'm tired. I'm understanding more than I realise, but I want to sleep. I don't want to talk. I give them a lot of blank stares in the kitchen. Pascale and one of their friends were waiting for us. I can't even handle (in a French-socially acceptable way) an introduction to this other woman.

Pascale saves me, "Tu es fatigué?" I think he's tired. He wants to sleep, n'est-ce pas? Fetching some sheets and leading me back downstairs, she has me move my stuff into the other, perhaps smaller, bedroom, lets me know what's going on, and leaves me to go to sleep.

Some parting words (in French, of course), "You can sleep as you want tomorrow, and work can wait two or three days if necessary, because of the jet lag and all that."

My first night in France, settled in at Le Falgueyret, I slept sixteen hours.

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Trois Journées Cette Semaine
I'll never keep up with this journal if I can't keep it up to date. Fortunately it should be totally caught up by the end of the week, so long as I update it daily. For your sakes, I hope the entries get a little shorter, but this journal is also for me (I'd hate to have to start another--way too much effort): entries will be as long as they need to be to help me remember all this in the future. So there.

Sunday I went to Mass. Church is sad here. Kelly and I were the youngest people in there, but that fact doesn't really tell the whole story. France used to be almost entirely Catholic, but now (I get the impression that) it's mostly atheist, maybe agnostic. I don't really care so much what people believe, so long as they believe in something, but I know, based on my experiences with the Church in the States, that there is so much good that can come from a strong, vibrant Catholic (or otherwise religious) community.

The next youngest person in the mass must've been at least 50--everyone was gray-haired and probably had multiple grandchildren. Mass in many of the communities involves a roving priest, who says the Mass in a different town each week. Le Bugue, which is more populous than many of the small towns in the area, seems to have weekly masses, but in such a sad state: the 130 year-old stone church (picture your classical gorgeous European stone church, age it a bit, and you're probably there; I'll try to get a picture sometime) could've held a few hundred people but held no more than 50 (at the most) this Sunday.

Apparently, some priests in the past became personally wealthy by the Church, putting many of the French off the Church. What's really disappointing, though, is the lack of energy. I understand it may be difficult to keep up the effort after years in such a depressing scenario, but the priest that said our mass (Peace be with him) lacked all of the energy that would've helped attract a younger crowd. Moreover, after mass there was little mingling of the community, and the priest wasn't even present for what little did occur. All in all, pretty disheartening.

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Y'know, I can't remember what else we did on Sunday, but I'll share a bit about Monday and today to bridge the gap. (I know you just want me to keep going!)

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Today was fairly tame: we painted some metal chairs green (yesterday we painted them with some anti-rust product), cleared the yard a bit, and weeded some of the pathways most used by guests. Not too bad as far as a day's work goes. We managed to stop by the market at Le Bugue also, and I picked up some delicious-snack-whose-name-I've-forgotten for two Euros during our wanderings.

The highlight, if we can call it that, was when Christian left for Sainte Alvère (a small town the opposite direction of Le Bugue). Before he left he asked me to get the donkeys out of the field (apparently they can eat themselves to death), because they'd been out there too long. All by my onesies I managed to get them out of the field, without harnesses or anything, but just by calling out to them. In French, of course, because they're French donkeys.

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The other bit to explain the title of today's post: turns out the Belgian Caley is in fact an American, Kelly. Christian thought I'd talk to her in English if I knew she was from the states. We watched "Doctor Who" together last night and spoke some English then, but that's the only time so far. It was hard not to say stuff in French that came to mind, too.

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Now that's it for the day. Maybe some photos before I sleep. Tomorrow I'll be doing laundry, but I don't know what else.

Hope everything's going well the other side of the pond.

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